Elysium
by prouvaires
Summary: -she's wearing that green dress with the silver edging and maybe destiny's overrated.- ArthurMorgana. Merry Christmas!


**Disclaimer: **I would like to own Merlin, but sadly I don't.

**Words: **4,500

**Rating:** T (for language)

**A/N: **This is my Christmas present to you all – I hope you enjoy it. I've never spent so long working on a one-shot – it's been a constant presence in my task-bar since last Wednesday.

Merry Christmas!

--

She's breath-taking tonight. She's wearing that (tight) green dress with the (sparkly) silver edging and the matching silver gloves and men are falling over themselves to dance with her. Well, everyone except the man who's supposed to be escorting her. In one of the rare halts in the music, she flops down into the seat next to him, surprising him with a momentary lapse in her customary elegance. (Sometimes it's nice to be reminded she's human under that _oh_-_so_-perfect façade.)

"What's the matter, Arthur?" she asks, and there's something in her voice that he doesn't understand. "Why won't you dance?"

He makes no reply, and she leans to nudge him with her shoulder. "Come on, live a little," she teases, and he glares at her. (Anger's easy. It slows his heart rate and stops his hands trembling.)

"Someone has to be sober enough to carry you back to your chambers when you're dead-drunk later," he retorts, and she presses a hand to her heart in mock anguish.

"Oh, Arthur, that _hurt._"

"Go away," he snaps, and she laughs and takes his hand in her gloved one, pulling him to his feet (and her hand feels so good in his it's dangerous).

"You're such a baby," she murmurs in a low tone that if he didn't know better (but he does) he would say it's _intimate _and even _seductive._ Two of the last words he ever thought he'd use when describing the way Morgana speaks to him. Because he can't really think straight when she's so close to him (but he _is _trying, honest) he wraps his hands around her waist and pulls her into him. The music slows as she twines her arms around his neck (and _what _perfume is she wearing? It's so subtle and obvious and sharp and sweet and _her_.)

"Hasn't Gwen done a fabulous job with my hair?"

(_Who?_)

"Yes, lovely," he says (and he's not aching having her so close, it's just … hot in here.)

"You've hardly spoken to me recently," she informs him, and he raises an eyebrow as she moves away from his body momentarily to spin with the crescendo in the music, and then she's back against him (and it's a sigh of boredom, not relief. He swears.)

"I've been busy," he replies slowly, and her (so fucking bright) green eyes gaze into his, something shining in their depths that he's _not _going to get sucked into (promise).

"Sure you have," she says with an eye roll, and he finds himself smiling without meaning to.

"Saving Camelot on a regular basis is tiring work," he teases, and she spins away from him again before replying.

"Must be hard, with all the girls and the fame and the glory," she retorts (she's much better at this than him) and he doesn't laugh. He sort of crumples internally, and his momentary good mood is vanished. No-one really understands. (Well, some people _pretend _to.)

"It's harder than you think," he finds himself saying, and the words are hardly out of his mouth before he wishes he could suck them all back in. She's judged his mood instantly (because she just _knows _him like that) and her hand slides from the back of his neck to his red-clothed chest, fisting above his heart.

"How?" she murmurs, and his hand slides to cover hers in the silver glove.

"All the expectations and the responsibility," (he doesn't know why he's telling her) "and the fact that I have to be _so _perfect every single fucking minute of every single fucking day because my father expects it, and sometimes perfect is the last thing I want to be."

Her (sinfully green) wide eyes are gazing up at him, and suddenly it's like she's comforting him as she reaches to gently trace his cheekbone (the line's blurring now) and runs her hand through his hair, grasping and tugging lightly to get her point across.

"You don't have to be perfect all the time, Arthur," she tells him, as though she's letting him in on a secret, and he's aching for something he doesn't understand as they regard each other carefully (and that line between rightandwrong and brotherandsister is being erased, word by careful word).

"Prince Arthur!" a man calls from across the dancefloor, and they spring apart (guiltily) as a knight rushes up to them. "You wouldn't believe the bet Ulfric's made now!" the man exclaims, almost reaching out to tug on Arthur's sleeve before noticing Morgana. "My lady," he breathes almost reverently, and takes her gloved hand to kiss it gently. She gives him a smile (and Arthur's _not_ jealous, really, just concerned because the man's a player and a fool and she might get hurt).

The knight leads her away into the dance, Ulfric and the bet forgotten, and he can hear her laugh rise above the music (he'll think of an excuse for why he can later). He shoulders his way through the rest of the dancers to the edge of the floor, grabbing a goblet from the nearest tray and draining it in one, the alcohol coursing fierily through his veins as the golden circlet on his head shifts.

"Good evening, my lord," a soft voice says behind him (and he knows he should know who it belongs to …) and he whirls to see Guinevere staring up at him, her (not green) eyes soft and content and full of love.

"Ah, Guinevere, good evening," he replies, and as she smiles her easy, pretty smile at him he can almost remember why he fell in love with her in the first place (she'd surely be much easier to love than Morgana) but then a hand slides into his from behind and a confident voice speaks over his shoulder.

"You don't mind if I steal him, do you, Gwen?" she asks carelessly (and the unconcerned act would be complete if her hand wasn't shaking in his). "The other ladies are beginning to close in and I'm determined to cause an argument at least once this evening."

Guinevere nods (does she really have a choice?) and Morgana tugs Arthur away and back into the jostling, swaying crowd.

"You shouldn't treat Gwen so poorly," he says, realising that as Gwen's potential husband he should probably start working towards making her life better (and it's love, _not _guilt, that's making him think this – he swears). Morgana just laughs.

"You can say that when poor Merlin is standing over there looking asleep on his feet?"

Arthur glances over at his man-servant, who blinks sleepily and then half-heartedly waves as the prince glares at him.

"You and Merlin are … close …" he begins, (almost totally) unsure where he's going with this. She laughs again and he's angry because she used to be infuriating when she did that but at some point in the last few months (years) it stopped being annoying and turned into something else. (Don't say _endearing _or he'll hit you.)

"He's my friend. I am allowed to have friends, am I not?" she adds when Arthur's brows slant and he looks like he's losing his temper. (And he's not, because if he was losing his temper it would mean he was jealous, and that would mean … no. Just no.)

He realises she's waiting expectantly for a reply, and he grasps her hand and her waist and swings her into him as the musicians begin a lively jig.

"Of course you're allowed friends," he tells her with a (forced) snort for the obviousness of the answer.

"Good," she replies sarcastically, raising an eyebrow. "Nice to know I have your permission."

"Any time," he replies, and manages to look away from her eyes before he starts drowning (again). The dance separates them for a while, and when they join back together she's flushed and laughing and his good mood is returning.

"It's hot this evening," she comments as he leads her to the side of the hall to sit down. He glances out the window.

"Yeah, all that snow must contribute to the heat."

She gasps, and is on her feet like a child, her nose pressed against the window as the big, fat flakes flurry down towards the ground.

"Come on, Morgana, you've seen snow before," he teases, joining her at the window, her back pressed all along the line of his body (and he _hasn't_ noticed – honestly).

"Yes, but there's something so special about watching it fall at night."

(He has a thousand replies he could make to this, almost all of which will cause them both to realise that he cares for her a lot more than he should.)

So he just says "hmm," (he's never had a way with words) and stands there with her as the hall gradually empties and when it's almost totally empty but for the servants beginning to clear up he grins at her and reaches for the window latch. (So he has this thing about provoking her, sue him.)

"Arthur, no!" she squeals as the freezing wind gusts in and blows snow all over her body. It crusts on her (unfairly long) eyelashes and lands in her (shiny) dark hair where it provides a beautiful contrast in the few seconds before it melts. She wrestles to get the window shut as he laughs (because she's so beautiful when she's angry).

"Why?" she asks shortly, blinking up at him, and (amazingly) manages to convey all her anger in that one short syllable.

(He doesn't have an answer.)

"Because … it was funny?" he tries hopefully, and she glares up at him, brushing snow off the front of her dress furiously.

"You have such a twisted sense of humour," she snaps, her (too bright) eyes narrowed and fiery.

"At least I _have_ a sense of humour," he retorts quickly (and it's annoying because arguing used to be easier than this).

"You are such an arrogant, insensitive, selfish, vain …"

He's not listening as she rants. He's watching her (full red) lips move and her (mind-fucking) green eyes glare and her hands (that he wants all over his body) gesticulate wildly.

"Yeah," he says absently when she pauses for breath, and her expression (if possible) gets even angrier.

"You don't listen to a word I say," she exclaims, and he tilts his head slightly to the side.

"Pardon?" he replies (just because it's funny) and she tosses her hair, yanking one of the silver gloves off her hand. He watches, slightly confused, as she holds it up, and then with a flourish throws it down at his feet.

(_What?_)

"Morgana, you can't be serious," he states with an eyebrow raised. Her chin is up, her jaw set.

"Not to the death," she qualifies, her whole expression daring him to pick it up. "Just to submission."

He rolls his eyes. "Never."

She moves closer, her hips suddenly swinging in that seductive way she has (and he hasn't noticed it before, promise).

"What's the matter Arthur? Scared you'll get beaten by a _girl_?"

"No, I'm scared I'll hurt you!" he shouts at her, and realises what he's said as her eyes flash to meet his. Her lip trembles slightly as she moves closer, her bare hand reaching out for him – and then Merlin drops a plate behind them (it shatters, and Arthur curses his clumsiness for what must be the millionth time) and they snap back to reality.

"Come on, Arthur," she teases provocatively. "I dare you."

"No."

She's not dissuaded, and her confidence is so unshatterable that he _knows _he'll have picked the glove up by the end of the evening. It's just a matter of how long he can hold out for.

"You don't listen when I talk to you, but you should start listening when I beat you black and blue with a sword."

"Is that a promise?" he says huskily, playing her at her own game (and he's not going to pretend he doesn't enjoy it). She flushes, and looks dangerously close to stamping her foot.

"Pick up the glove," she orders, her syllables measured and delivered in an icy tone. He sighs, and with all the arrogance he can muster (that's a lot, by the way – he's been building this shield of obnoxiousness since he was ten) plucks the glove up from the floor. She smiles triumphantly, and her eyes are shining happily as she sets the terms.

"Armour, helmets, swords. No shields."

He just nods and takes her hand in his. He's imagining her sigh, he's sure, as he gently slides the glove back onto her hand, the cool silkiness of the satin contrasting against her warm, smooth skin and the rough sword-wielding calluses on his fingers. She gazes at him with slightly parted lips, and suddenly his hand slides up to her hair and their lips are about to meet when someone clears their throat behind them (he'll throw them in the stocks for that) and they both hastily jump backwards.

"Noon tomorrow," she commands him (and he's only imagining that her voice is shaking). Again, he just nods.

"Goodnight my lady," he says with a slight bow, his whole body aching for the kiss he so nearly received. She sweeps from the hall in a whirl of skirts (but she glances back). He turns slowly and comes face-to-face with Gwen, who's looking like she can't decide whether to be angry or burst into tears.

"Gwen," he states matter-of-factly. "I'm sorry."

(And he is, really – but he doesn't mean sorry for the almost-kiss, he means sorry but I don't love you any more.)

"It's okay," she whispers, and a tear overspills and rolls down her cheek. "I could never compete with Morgana, I knew that the moment I was engaged as her maid."

He reaches out a hand to her and wipes away the tears (yes, he knows he's making it worse – your point?) and cups her cheek gently.

"You knew this could never work, Guinevere," he tells her. She raises her chin and he realises (too late) that he's about to get one of her infamous tongue-lashings.

"I always knew you picked up women and dropped them like toys, Arthur – I've lived in this castle long enough to know that. But I thought that maybe … maybe you'd changed for me. It was very inconsiderate of you to string me along for so long. I really believed that you loved me. And the kiss to be rid of Vivian … I thought … never mind …" she trails off uncertainly, and he sighs.

"Things change," he murmurs (and destiny's breaking apart, word by word). "I did love you, I swear it – but I need a wife who will be worthy of a kingdom such as Camelot. Morgana's been raised her whole life to be a queen."

"So now I'm unworthy?"

(He really doesn't want to do this now.)

"No," he hastens to remedy the damage he's done. "I just mean that … you're not … strong enough to be queen. You can't understand the pressures and responsibility of ruling unless you've been brought up in a royal family."

"I thought you a better man than this, Arthur Pendragon," she whispers, and he's suddenly more angry than he has a right to be. (He _is _a better man than this – he's a better man for Morgana and for Camelot and that's why he's doing this to her.)

"Gwen, please," he begins, but she's turned and run (away) down a corridor, and he's left standing alone in the huge hall, the candles sputtering and dying one by one.

--

Noon the next day, he's standing in the arena, sword clenched in his hand, facing her across the withered grass. No-one except from him (and Merlin, who seems to know everything) knows that it's her, and that's the way she intends to keep it. Her helmet is on, but he can see her (emerald) eyes through the slit.

"A fight to submission only!" Uther declares, and Arthur nods and slides his helmet on. He dips his head in her direction as they begin to circle each other. He thinks this is an unfair fight, because he is so terrified of hurting her that he won't land a single true blow. He moves lightly, waiting for her to make the first move.

She explodes towards him suddenly, a ball of barely-controlled wildness as she swings her sword at him. His reach is longer, but she's quicker on her feet, and they're pretty evenly-matched.

She scores first blow, slicing his trousers and giving him a surface scratch. The blood on his leg wakes him up, and he blocks and parries, hoping to subdue her before either of them get seriously hurt. She's (surprisingly) fast, swinging her blade into the openings he leaves before he has a chance to bat her sword away, and it screeches as the tip scores his armour.

"Morgana, enough," he says as she closes again, and he can see a smirk crinkling the corners of her eyes.

"Never," she replies, and swings a blow at his leg. With a silent apology, he strikes hard and fast into the opening she leaves and bashes her helmet from her head in one clean move. The crowd gasps (some scream) as her hair tumbles down around her shoulders and she staggers backwards. With a heavy sigh, he removes his own helmet and tosses it to the side. Uther is on his feet, shouting at them to stop.

(They're in too deep now.)

She rushes at him again, and it's like a (deadly) dance as they twirl and clash and breathe. It's like the very air has a heart-beat as his control slips and his sword extends a little too far and makes a neat slice in the top of her arm. He halts immediately, horrified, and Uther is already rushing from the throne to separate them, knights around him.

But she's furious now and in a second that seems to last hours (years) her sword snakes around his and tears it from his hand. She leaps at him, knocking him backwards, and sits on his armoured stomach as her sword-tip flicks to his throat.

"Dead," she announces, and her smug satisfaction doesn't annoy him as it usually does.

"You're hurt," he breathes as Uther and the knights reach them, pulling her off him and holding them apart.

"You foolish, foolish boy!" Uther roars at Arthur, who hangs his head in shame. (Yes, he _knows _he shouldn't have accepted the challenge; but can't his father see he's punished enough by having caused her pain?)

"It's not his fault," Morgana declares as she pulls her chain-mail up over her head to allow a knight to bind the wound. "I set the challenge. I made him take it up."

"Then you both have rocks for brains!" Uther rages at them, and as he continues to rant about their idiocy her eyes snap to meet his and something they don't need words for passes between them. (And it's something like "I love you," except not.)

--

Uther puts them both in a cell together for three days to teach them a lesson. Morgana forgives him (she knows it's only because he cares).

"I'm sorry," she says eventually, leaning a tired head against the cold stone wall. Their wounds are cleaned and bound, but Uther would not allow her to change from the man's tunic and leggings she was wearing.

"It's not your fault. I shouldn't have taken up the challenge."

He's sitting on the opposite side of the cell, knees drawn up with his elbows resting on them. The golden circlet his father had thrown at him to remind him that he's crown prince of Camelot, and needs to start acting more like it, lies on the ground, resting in the straw. Morgana moves steadily across the cell and kneels at his feet, picking the crown up.

"You dropped this," she says, and that infuriating (captivating) sparkle is in her eyes as she brushes it off and (rather insensitively) jams it on his head.

"Ow!" he protests as he ducks backwards, and she just laughs and mock-slaps him on the shoulder.

"Grow up," she tells him as she moves back over to her side of the cell.

"I'm not talking to you now," he announces, turning round to face the wall (yes, he knows he can't keep the grin off his face).

"Technically you just negated your own statement by saying it," she points out, and he's about to give a witty retort (seriously, he is) when suddenly she's pounces on him and starts – of all things – tickling his sides. And, embarrassingly, he's been extremely ticklish his whole life. (Don't tell anyone that, okay?)

So he shouts in surprise and rolls over, dragging her with him as her fingers dance up and down his sides, tears of laughter forming in his eyes as he struggles to get away.

"Morgana …" he gasps, almost unable to draw breath. "Stop it … Father will think … we're fighting … again …"

She smirks. "So?"

With a sigh (he knows no-one else is around) he gives in to her un-worded plea and starts tickling her back, and soon they're rolling around in the straw like they're eleven years young again. She's almost screaming with laughter, and soon enough someone hears and comes to investigate.

(But Arthur and Morgana have been playing this game for a long time.)

And so when the guard arrives at the cell door Arthur is sitting with his back against the far wall, glaring (he's flushed slightly, but so what?) and Morgana is curled up on her side, facing away from the door (that's because she has this huge smile on her face, but don't tell the guard).

"You two behaving?" the guard asks, and although usually Arthur would object to being talked down to like a child the memory of her hands on him and her warm breath on his ear and neck and the soft weight of her are bouncing around his memory and he's not listening to a word the guard says.

"Mmhm," he mumbles, upping the intensity of his glare until the guard beats a retreat, looking more than a little unsure as to how to deal with such an odd situation. (The king's son imprisoned for fighting with the king's ward? Imprisoned in a cell _with _the girl he's just been fighting with? It's more than a little confusing, and besides the guard isn't paid to _understand_.)

She sighs heavily, and moves across the cell to sit next to him. Her head sinks onto his shoulder, and as his arm moves around her shoulder she just sort of _melts _into him (and the shivers run up and down his body) and she then she tilts her head _just so _and suddenly his lips are coming down onto hers and she's moving to straddle his lap, her hands fisting in his hair as his move to her back and press her against him.

"I love you," she breathes against his mouth when they part for air, and he makes a strangled sort of moan (doesn't have a way with words, remember?) and pulls her lips back to his, so desperately it's like he can find answers or safety or truth against her soft skin.

Suddenly she rolls off him and over to her side of the cell again, and he manages to raise his head above the crashing waters that are the tumult of his mind and hear (heavy) footsteps coming their way. His father's face appears at the cell door, and Arthur holds his breath as the king's gaze sweeps over his rumpled clothes, messy hair and the out-of-control rise and fall of his chest.

"Listen, I put you two in here to stop you fighting again," Uther says wearily, and Morgana raises her head, leaning her neck against her hand to disguise the mark Arthur's left against her skin.

"We're sorry, Uther," she says. "We'll be good now."

(Good is relative).

"Okay," he says, and his eyes run over them both one final time before he departs.

"That was close," Arthur murmurs, and she laughs and moves back over to him, sinking down the wall next to him and curling up against his side.

"What will we tell Gwen?" she asks softly, and Arthur gives a little jolt (yes, he's feeling guilty – surprised?)

"I already spoke to her. She saw us last night …"

"Oh no," Morgana breathes, and her head falls into her hands. Arthur suddenly realises something.

"Wait, how does Gwen matter to you?"

She laughs. "Poor, naïve little Arthur. You don't honestly think you've kept this … _thing _… with her secret, do you?"

He flushes. "Yes, actually."

She pats his hand condescendingly. "It's okay. Uther doesn't know."

He groans and presses his face into his hands. "Oh, god."

She laughs again and nuzzles her face into his neck. (And he forgets about Gwen for a moment at the feeling of her lips on his skin.)

"I don't think we should do this now," she murmurs as his hands slide to the bottom of her shirt. He listens and hears the guards talking and moving around at their posts, and sighs, pulling his hands back into his lap.

"I hate it when father imprisons me," he mutters, and she chuckles.

"How many sons can claim that?"

"What?"

"That they've been thrown into prison by their own father."

He laughs (she can always make his bad moods go away). She shifts closer again and leans on his shoulder, shifting slightly to ease the pain in her arm. He lifts it by the elbow and presses a soft kiss to the bandage. She smiles and tousles his hair gently, another of her irritating (endearing) habits.

"I don't regret fighting you for a second," she informs him, taking his hand and playing with his fingers.

"I regret fighting you."

"Why, because you lost?"

He groans and runs a hand over his face. "I'm never going to be allowed to forget that, am I?"

She shakes her head with that infuriating (beautiful) grin, and he smiles back (he can't help it) and pulls her in closer to him.

"I love you," he whispers (he needs the words now) and she turns her face into his chest. She murmurs something he doesn't catch, and he prises her chin up with his fingers (she's surprisingly strong) until his blue eyes are drowning in her green ones (and he thinks that maybe the biggest difference between them is that she never lowers her guard in that way).

"I missed that," he says, and he knows that he's grinning now.

"…I love you too," she mutters, looking embarrassed, and tries to hide her face again.

"I knew it!" he crows triumphantly, and captures her (soft) lips for another kiss.

(Destiny's just shattered into a million glittering pieces, but who cares? Destiny's overrated.)

--


End file.
